


one hundred proof

by 0shadow_panther0



Series: one day at a time [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: -no spoilers-, Alcohol, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Gen, some hand-wavey time period before s16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 22:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14435790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/0shadow_panther0
Summary: Locus goes to a bar for a drink and finds sentimentality instead.





	one hundred proof

Locus doesn’t expect to see Carolina in a middle-of-nowhere dingy, poorly-lit bar at midnight.

He does, of course, because that’s how things work out for him nowadays.

He’s about to turn around and walk out the way he came in- he should, it’d be the smartest thing he’s done in months, _years_ , even- but in that exact moment Carolina turns her head and locks eyes with him. The flash of recognition is unmistakable- most people might not know what the infamous Butcher of Chorus looks like under the helmet, but Carolina does.

Locus resists the urge to swear under his breath.

“Hey, you,” she calls. “Big guy.”

He sighs.

He walks to the counter with the air of man approaching his execution, Carolina’s sharp green eyes on him every step of the way.

He settles in the seat to her left, feeling equal parts stifled and exposed in his civilian clothes.

“What brings you here?” Carolina asks, an accusation thinly veiled under a layer of congeniality.

“I could ask you the same,” he replies dully, pointedly avoiding her gaze.

“Stress,” she throws back easily. “Exhaustion. Wanted something that tastes better than gas-station beer. Take your pick.”

She looks the part, at least. Her voice is rough and her shoulders are slightly slumped.

She looks… tired.

He looks away.

Her fingers drum an absent minded tattoo on the countertop, the sound lost in the bustle of the bar, and he sits stiffly on the stool, biting the inside of his cheek. His hands flex and clench restlessly.

“Do you know how many people died in the civil war?” Carolina asks. She doesn’t wait for him to answer- he doesn’t think he could have, anyhow. “One _million_. In _fifteen years_ of war.”

He is responsible for no less than four of those years and two hundred thousand deaths, he thinks, and that’s after he splits the number with Felix. Not directly- although that number is high enough that his mouth turns bitter- but responsible enough that he might as well have put the bullet in their skulls personally.

He stays silent.

Carolina drags a fingertip along the edge of her glass, not looking at him- he’s grateful for that, at least. He’s not sure he could bear the weight of her stare without flinching.

“How many people have you lost?” she asks suddenly.

He stares blankly at the wood for a moment, crossing his arms and setting his elbows on the table. He exhales slowly. “Many.”

She sends him a sidelong glance, a few strands of bright hair falling over her eyes. “Your fault?” Somehow, her tone isn’t accusatory.

Locus bites his tongue. “Yes.”

She huffs and leans forward, elbows resting on the counter. “Lost a friend,” she says. “Today’s not the day he died, but-” she pauses, throws back her shot. “‘S the last time I ever saw him.” She motions to the bartender, not looking at him. “Last time I saw a lotta people, actually.”

The bartender wanders over and Carolina mumbles her order- “Whiskey, old-fashioned-” and for the first time Locus notices that she’s thumbing an old lighter, red paint faded and chipped.

The drink slides in front of her and she tosses it back, grimacing. “He had terrible taste in alcohol,” she says, scowling. “Everyone did. Degenerates, all of them.”

Locus studies her for a moment- bruised shadows under her eyes, hair tied back in a messy tail, a warm flush across her cheeks- she’s well into tipsy territory and hurtling towards blackout drunk at breakneck speed.

“Used to not be able to get drunk, y’know,” she says conversationally. “‘Super soldier freak’ and all that. They pumped so many chems into me so I wouldn’t kill myself using the speed boost unit that it fucked up my metabolism.” She scoffs, staring at the bottom of her glass. “Fucked up a lotta things.

He doesn’t respond, but sends her a long, lingering glance, which she returns with tilt of her mouth that’s more grimace than smile.

“Caipirinha,” he tells the bartender. “On the rocks.”

“Don’t you want one of the little umbrellas?” Carolina drawls from beside him. Then, turning to the bartender, “Give him a lil’ paper umbrella. A green one. ‘Nd a Long Island iced tea for me.”

“Does Agent Washington know you’re here?” he questions.

“Mm,” she says in response, which sounds a little more like ‘no’ than ‘yes.’

Their drinks arrive- both with paper umbrellas, his mint green, hers a bright, cheery yellow.

She doesn’t down her glass immediately, stirring her drink thoughtfully with the stem of her umbrella. “Why Wash?” she asks abruptly.

Locus’ gaze flickers to her for a brief moment and he takes a long, slow sip of his caipirinha, the sweet-sour taste settling heavy on his tongue. “What about Agent Washington?”

“Your… y’know,” she says vaguely, waving her hand in his general direction.

He does not, in fact, know, and tells her so.

She waggles her fingers more aggressively. “Your _fixation_.”

Locus grimaces and takes a gulp of his drink. He’s going to need more than this if he’s going to survive the night. “I believe psychoanalyses are Dr. Grey’s specialization.”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time with her,” Carolina replies flippantly. “And it’s more of a personal curiosity than anything.”

He drums his fingers against the wood of the counter- _th-th-th-thump_ \- and then stills. “Agent Washington is… human.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not particularly,” Locus grumbles under his breath, and then does anyway. “The simulation troopers. They are his… friends. Despite the fact that he is also a soldier.”

Carolina squints into her cup. “You hyper-fixated on Wash because he had _friends_? I wonder what that says about your ability to juggle your social and professional life.” She pauses, apparently considering Felix. “Mm. Actually, compared to you, Wash must be a regular social butterfly.”

“The simulation troopers trust him with their lives,” Locus says, a tad defensively.

“I mean, yeah,” Carolina says. “The alternative is that they take care of their lives _themselves_.” She sighs. “Look, I’m not entirely sure that you’ve noticed, but Wash has the social fluency of a patch of dirt, and, to be honest, it wasn’t that much better back in the Project.”

Locus frowns.

Carolina hums. “I think the friendship thing might be more of a Reds and Blues thing than a Wash thing,” she says dryly. “D’you know they thought he killed Donut? Shot him point blank.”

Locus blinks. He… didn’t, actually.

“Lopez, too,” she continues. “‘Cept he’s a robot, so it didn’t really do anything. So what I’m saying is, short of planetary genocide-” Locus winces- “the Reds and Blues are pretty forgiving.” She pauses. “I don’t think Wash actually apologized for any of it. Like, ever.” She exhales softly, brings her drink to her mouth. When she puts it down, the alcohol level is dangerously low. “He’s kind of an idiot like that.” Her tone is equal parts dry and affectionate, a tiny half-smile curling at the corners of her mouth.

They sit in silence for a minute, Carolina idling twirling the ice and remains of her drink, and Locus taking small, measured sips of his own.

The regular bustle from the rest of the bar fills the quiet admirably, gives him something to focus on other than her, and he absentmindedly picks out snippets of conversation from across the room, the tinny sound of the music blaring through cheap speakers.

“Do you ever feel tired?” she mumbles, low enough he almost misses it. Her eyes are glassy, staring straight ahead at nowhere in particular. “Like… you don’t think you make it to the next day.”

His drink is empty. He sets it down, staring blankly at the bottom. “I do.”

Her head tilts, bangs flopping over eyes. “Thought so.”

She downs the last bit of her ‘tea’ and flags down the bartender for the umpteenth time. “Hit me with… what he had.”

“How many more drinks do you plan on having?”

“Few more, maybe,” she says. “I’m more coherent than I’d like. Plus, I’d rather forget this meeting by tomorrow.”

He huffs, somewhere in between exasperation and resignation. “Is that wise?”

She waves him off. “It’s a rare occasion,” she says. “Last time I so much as touched alcohol was… Christ. More than ten years. Shore leave when I was still a Marine.”

“...I see.”

He doesn’t.

The caipirinha slides in front of her and she takes a tentative sip, rolling the taste around in her mouth thoughtfully. “‘S alright,” she says finally. “What’s in it?”

“Lime, sugar, and cachaça,” he answers. “Brazilian.”

“Kah-shah-suh,” she echoes. “‘S good. Like rum.”

Locus makes a low noise of acknowledgement, considering whether he should risk ordering a second drink.

He watches as Carolina takes another swig, running her tongue along her teeth afterwards. “I’m tired,” she announces to noone in particular, throws back the rest of the drink, and swivels around in her chair.

“Where are you staying?” Locus asks, idly wondering if she’ll be able to make it out the door on two feet.

She stands with surprising grace and stretches lazily. “Nearby,” she says. “Close enough to walk.”

“That is… adequate,” he says. Pauses. “...Good night, Agent Carolina.”

She glances at him, eyes glittering behind strands of fire-bright hair. “Good night-”

“Sam,” he says suddenly.

Her eyes widen. For the first time tonight, Carolina is the one caught off guard. For a moment, she stands in shocked silence, and he turns his scrutiny to his empty glass.

He hears her sigh, and when he dares glance back at her, there’s a softness to the line of her mouth.

“Good night, Sam,” she says quietly.


End file.
